His Beloved
by paGOOSE
Summary: It was the only way he knew how to deal with the situation. Kiyoto/MC


**DISCLAIMER**: Don't own anything by Voltage inc

**Author's Notes: **Switches in perspective are completely intentional.

Originally posted on tumblr.

**PROMPT:** A close friend on tumblr requested some Kiyo-smut. I fulfilled that request.

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If Kiyoto had to admit something, it was that it had been a long time since he had felt a need to do this. Admittedly, there was someone who had happened to be _there_ should the need ever come up. And then she just waltzed right in without a 'how the fuck are you' and made him start acting like a high schooler all over again. All needy and just wanting and _loving_.

Hah, well, that went completely out the window, didn't it?

Closing the curtain to offer some sense of privacy in the cramped apartment, Kiyoto sighed to himself. Why the hell was he mentally preparing himself? He had done this before, after all. Countless since she came along, he had found himself thinking of her and just touching himself. Kiyoto had to admit his water bill had gone up since first meeting her.

Removing his shirt and carelessly tossing it the side, he closed his eyes, painting the scene before him. The last night they had been together.

He could see the way the moonlight seemed to fall on her skin, dipping in her curves, like the moon itself was pressing small kisses on the woman's back. Absentmindedly, Kiyoto's hands wandered his chest, fingertips running over his nipples, pinching the soft buds. He let out a small hiss.

He remembered the way she herself had done this. Remembered the smirk that decorated those red lips of hers when he had let that sound out. He could almost feel her breath along his skin, and his body reacted in the same way.

Drawing himself out, Kiyoto ambled his way over to his bed, stumbling a bit. Before him, she was layed out bare, thighs apart and fingers splayed as she played with herself. Reaching out, his hands only met air, but that pink on her cheeks was so vivid, so real.

Falling face first on his pillow, Kiyoto pushed back his anger. No. He couldn't allow that to cloud him now. He _needed_ this far more than he would admit.

Rolling onto his back, Kiyoto bit his lower lip, slowing his breathing. Closing his eyes once more, he could see that stupid grin of hers, that came up when he had embarrassed her. She'd hit him, call him an idiot, but it would be there. Along with that beautiful blush.

Hands returning to his chest, he let himself go, and just relied on touch. His fingertips, rough and calloused, were nothing like hers, but the feeling was all her. He could _hear_ her little giggles from when he had fumbled. Could hear her own breathy moans when he had finally got the upperhand.

It was almost as if she was right beside him, panting and grinning and just being _her_. "Kiyoto, _please_."

Moaning, his already half hard cock twitched, straining against its confines. Grunting, Kiyoto struggled with his belt. Her laughter filled the air. He had been like this that time. Her hands had been the ones to undo his belt. To trace the hard lines of his chest before trailing down. She had even called his belly-button cute then, before dipping her tongue into the sensitive hole.

Finally freeing himself of his pants, he shimmied them down along with his boxers, whimpering at the feeling of the cold air on his cock. Maybe he should have done this in the bath. Warmer. She laughed beside him, teasing him. Took him in her hand and tugged that little bit. His eyes had bulged then. They did now too.

Kiyoto moaned her name, closing his eyes once more. Slow strokes, barely brushing the heated skin. She hard started this way too. Slow, so slow, and not enough pressure. What had he said then, as she stood before him, smirking with her hand on his cock? Oh, right. "_Please._"

With his thumb and two fingers, he pressed his hand down, dragging his fingers to the base. Jerking, a moan left him. She smiled at that reaction, repeating it until he had to grip onto her shoulders. Her thumbnail had run along his skin, taunting and probably really dangerous but it had felt so _fucking_ good he had just paced himself in her hand.

His left hand teased the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, half-moons forming when he dug his nails in. She had bitten him there, giggling of course when he had spluttered out how it was _his_ job to do that to _her_. She had silenced him by taking his cock in her mouth without any warning.

Spitting into his hand, Kiyoto returned to stroking himself, imaging that he was inside her mouth now, her tongue swirling and tasting him, her head bobbing up and down. He had gripped her hair in a moment of ecstasy, and had to stop himself from thrusting. Kiyoto had admitted that he hadn't expected a mouth like _that_ on her.

Grunting, he opened his eyes, seeing her above him for that brief moment. Seeing the tinge he just loved decorate her skin, he paused. Was it real? No, it wasn't. He was here, in Paris. She had made it clear what her intentions were. Immediately, his thoughts went south, as he remembered her 'dedication' to her husband.

Clearly, his thoughts were not headed in the right direction, as he felt himself begin to go limp. Rolling over, he smacked his hand around until he felt the handle of his bedside table. Rummaging through paper and various paraphernalia, he shuddered. Whatever was currently sitting on his back was not her, but the ghosting of her hands as the heel of her palms pressed against his shoulder blades certainly felt real.

He was fairly sure he was alone this evening. As he had been every evening since he had come to Paris.

Finally, his hand closed around the small bottle. Flipping back onto his back, he ignored the girl, ignored the sorry smile she gave him. Squirting a decent amount of lube on his left hand, he most definitely ignored the way her hands settled on his as he ran his hands up and down his cock.

All he could feel was her in that moment. Rubbing just under the head, in slow, torturous circles. Her hand massaging his balls. Her tongue plugging the head of his cock. And that stupid grin on her face when he had finally pulled her off him, pushed her down onto his bed and kissed her relentlessly.

Kiyoto ignored the pressure on his lips as he imagined kissing her. He had kissed her like the sun exploding, put every ounce of his being into it. And she had responded with fervour. He could feel the love from her, nothing more, nothing less. Just love and feeling and in that moment he was happy. The happiest he had ever been. Because that woman had been his and he had been hers.

Thrusts increasing, he just remembered the way it had felt when he had finally entered her. There was a look on her face just before, not regret, no, but something akin to fear. Somewhere, he had enough sense to wrap his arms around her once more. To hold her and reassure her. To whisper everything and anything to her. She had hugged him back, thighs spread, hips raised, waiting for him.

Slowing down his strokes, he remembered it. Slow, so painfully slow, but he had watched her face carefully. She had whimpered, and _god_, she was so tight. He rested on his forearms, forehead pressed against hers, until he had filled her whole.

Kiyoto remembered the look on her face. Torn between pleasure and pain. It had been a while for her, maybe too long since she had felt a lover's embrace. They had waited. Waited for a moment before he begun the rythym. In. Out. In. Out. Tempo and pressure and her legs wrapping around his waist. Hands in his hair. Head thrown back and his tongue on her throat. Biting that skin and her screaming in sheer ecstasy.

Faster. Pressing her leg back until the tops of her thighs was pressing against her stomach. Angle changed drastically and she was nearly in tears. Teasing her clit and watching her face contort. Just _watching_ her, burning the image of his beloved in his mind.

Kiyoto was never making love to a woman. She was nuclear, a star gone supernova, and he was caught in the blastwave. His bones had liquified, and that was fine with him. It was preferable, because at that moment, he wanted to die making love to that woman, to sink into that heat, that brightness, for the rest of his life and beyond and forever.

He hadn't even realised he had finished when he opened his eyes. There was no ghost haunting him. Just a mess and the smallest amount of shame of jerking off to a married woman. Of falling for a married woman. Of loving a married woman.

Reaching over the the kleenex and cleaning himself up, Kiyoto screwed up the tissues and threw them away. Arms behind his head, he simply stared at the ceiling.

From the corner of his eye, he could see that canvas, half finished and sketchy. Like some cat had thrown up on it. Rolling over and stumbling over towards it, he lifted it up, tilting it towards the minimal amount of light.

Throwing the curtains open, moonlight streamed in. Settling the canvas on an easel by the window, he pulled a chair in started. Thick lines, running back and forth. He wasn't even thinking. But he could see it. See that smile so perfectly. Feel that skin so wonderfully.

Hours seemed to fly by. He doesn't even notice. He only watches as that woman's face starts to appear, as her body is only covered by a thin sheet, her nudity distorted but apparent. Lust. Love. He loves her so much it is burning him.

Her eyes are the last thing he tends to. Kiyoto's paint strokes slow. He doesn't want anyone else but him to see that tenderness she had held for him. Maybe it was fake. Maybe that whole time she was just _lying_ to him and playing with his feelings because she was some bored housewife, but that moment. That moment he couldn't forget. Her eyes were so expressive and it was that light in them that made him hold on a little longer. And wish and pray that maybe, just maybe, she'd stay.

When he sets his paintbrush down, it's well into morning. Vaguely, he realises he is hungry. But it is the sun rising higher in the sky, lighting the oranges and reds of his portrait that keep him seated. He watches as this woman transforms before him. It is no where near as beautiful as the real thing - and when is it ever, really? - but it's a close second.

He doesn't realise he's crying until there is a knock at the door and the director asking if he's awake yet. If he's finished his next painting. Then he's scrambling to dress and kick away anything that mentioned just how lonely he was.

The painting sits in the easel and the director is absolutely mystified by it. When he leaves, pleased with Kiyoto's progress, is when the phone goes off.

He doesn't even comprehend the words, just stares at the screen. The device falls from his fingers and he doesn't even realise what he's doing until later in the evening, when two more portaits follow the first, all of her and her smile and that pink tinge on her cheeks.

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